


A Man Made of Sand

by mojitobox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Army, M/M, PTSD, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojitobox/pseuds/mojitobox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble about John, war, longing, and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man Made of Sand

It is an ache that covers his skin. Secret and whole, it cracks him open like the hard flats of desert sand, leaves his skin parched and his bones creaking. Sherlock is water, Sherlock is air. Something good, something better, _can’t you understand?_

His life had been as colourless as a droning note before the splash of light and sound Sherlock forced upon him, _I’ve searched for this everywhere_. And it’d always been difficult for him, the predictability of time without war, the damp heat of depression, the grooved surface of his soul and the evident handicap the great force of “without” had left him with. But for day there is night and with time, all things change, and if nothing else the gun in his bedside table is a pleasant weight in Captain Watson's hand. 

Isn’t it odd, the way we humans muddle by? Isn’t it strange how our patience for others is a well that never tires, yet patience for our own healing is measured out in coffee spoons?

Time passes like bleeding clouds and each day is the same, until—until!—there is a sudden array of tastes for the holder of a simple palate and he is chasing after dark coat tails and receding footsteps because _this_ is what he was born for.

And so it fits, does it not? It follows that he should miss the cool touch of long fingers, the passing of a simple glance and barely hidden smile, sleight of hand and demanding mind. It suits that he should itch with tiredness at the loss of now-familiar warmth and it seems to fall into place that his anger at one becoming two and two becoming one should be so much that he, once again, becomes familiar with the weight of the gun he returns to keeping in his bedside table. His steps are straight but his back is near to arthritically hunched and his face is drawn and there, there is the evident handicap the great force of “without” has left him with.

Some days, John looks into a mirror and sees a reflection that isn’t his own staring back.

Some days, he sees his cracked skin and chapped lips and greets them as an old friend. He is dry and barren, he lives as deserts do (which is not at all and only at night when the nocturnal nature of his nightmares come to call). But in London, it only ever drizzles, and he’s still left waiting for the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
